


Voice

by maisiedaisy



Series: all the things kavinsky loves about prokopenko [2]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Cussing, Im ashamed of myself, M/M, That's okay, alluding to sex, as in get over it, but no full on smut bc im lame and cant do it, hiiii anon enjoy my nice kavinsky, i was in an angsty mood but didn't want to write complete angst, kavinsky is proko's bitch shut up, okay so K isn't as fluffy in this one as the first, ooc kavinsky, that was petty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 06:59:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9167407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maisiedaisy/pseuds/maisiedaisy
Summary: Kavinsky was in love with Proko's voice.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, listen up. Since last time I had a bit of an issue with this I'ma put in in the beginning--KAVINSKY IS TREATED LIKE A HUMAN BEING IN THIS FIC AND IF THAT BOTHERS YOU BECAUSE YOU DON'T THINK HE DESERVES IT THEN KINDLY GET OUT AND DON'T LET THE DOOR HIT YOU ON THE WAY OUT, THANK-YOU (i'm looking at you anon). If nice Kavinsky bothers you and you don't like how I portrayed him then here is your warning and don't cry and complain to me about it because I took the liberals of creating my own vision of who Kavinsky is. 
> 
> Okay. That's done. I am a generally chill person, so sorry. Annnnnnyways, here's the second installment. I'm not entirely happy with is so I might make some changes in the future but enjoy!!!

Kavinsky was in love with Prokopenko’s voice. If Kavinsky was all hard angles and rough edges, Proko was a soft billow, almost cloud-like ethereal, looking as if he’d become a wisp with a single touch. And his voice was no exception. He sounded a little bit like light rainfall when he spoke, and Kavinsky had never heard anything more sweet. 

 

It was silly, really. To get so hung up over the way someone said  _ Kavinsky _ . But all his life, his name had sounded like various things. Ronan said his name exactly like “Bulgarian mobster, jersey trash piece of shit”. It made Kavinsky ache in an angry, non-Proko, way. The others said his name as if he were a firecracker, tense and treading carefully through the syllables. Proko said his name the same way he’d say “i want to kill myself”; a little desperate, a little lost. But he’d also say it like a prayer, whisper it into the crook of K’s neck, soft and a little bit frightened. But in the good type of “i’m so in love with you and you’re so broken” way. 

 

Fuck. Proko even made simple words such as “car” and “tonight” sound like some secret promise, etching into the mess inside of K’s head. Sometimes it hurt to hear him speak. Because it reminded K that Proko was a person too and K could hurt him so so easily. He didn’t want to, fuck he didn’t want to. But K lacked the awareness to know when too much was too much. Didn’t have a filter for his cruel words and didn’t know how to control his impulses. The only thing that seemed to calm the forever fire inside of Kavinsky, was Proko’s soft, “Stop it, K. Enough.” 

 

The words lit like a fuse, had the opposite effect of one. The gentle roll of Proko’s words would whisper against Kavinsky until he was as docile as a lamb. It was rather endearing, Skov had laughed once, when Kavinsky was rampaging through a storm of curse words and insults when suddenly Prokopenko had called K’s name. And rather irritating for Kavinsky because fuck. He was supposed to be the Alpha, not the bitch. 

 

But what Kavinsky loved most about Proko’s voice, was that it wasn’t filled with anything except for love and fondness. His entire life he’s felt nothing but shame.  _ Disgrace. Weak. Pathetic. Ugly. Disappointment.  _ His own father said goodnight to Kavinsky as if he were hoping that it would be the last. But Proko….Proko  _ worshiped  _ him. Got down on his knees for him, broke open his heart for him, bared his fucking soul for him and Kavinsky heard it all in the younger boy’s voice. 

  
That night, with limbs wrapped around limbs, and sweat cooling on their bodies, Proko’s voice was a scratched record, aching and tight. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.” He had whimpered, an instinct to every thrust of K’s hips. And all K heard was, “Oh  _ K,  _ oh  _ K,  _ oh  _ K _ ” because Proko’s moans made him feel like a god, God blurring until all K heard was his name. When they fell asleep that night, Kavinsky could’ve sworn he heard an echo of his dad,  _ you sick fucker _ . K wished he could see him now, bent and broken for a boy half his size with a voice softer than the midnight of the dark sky. And when he fell asleep K dreamed of “I love you”’s silky with Proko’s tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, feedback is appreciated unless you just want to complain about my characterization of Kavinsky. In that case you can take it to my tumblr, maisparrow, and argue about it with me there. Thanks. (Yes, yes I know I should let go of that one comment but I'm a petty bitch so I'm gonna hold a grudge for eternity).
> 
> Peace.


End file.
